Trails and Tribulations
by Adlie
Summary: Molly Hooper tries to fulfill a promise to a ghost while John struggles to come to terms the sudden death of his best friend. Can this two find comfort in each other's friendship or will it transform into something more? And Sherlock soon learns that he and Moriarty are more alike then thought. Molly/John, post fall. Rated teen because of language and sexual hinting.Please review!
1. Aftermath

Molly Hooper opened her door to her apartment, carefully maneuvering her body so her cat, Toby, didn't run out. She put a cup of tea on to boil as she listened to the new message on her machine, stopping the angry red light from blinking far too brightly in the darkness of her neglected apartment. She still didn't bother to turn on the lights as she microwaved her meal, only half listening to her mother go on about who she ran into at the grocer's, who was sleeping, marrying, or impregnating whom, a line of conversations which usually slipped into just what Molly _wasn't _doing. She pulled her long, light brown hair into a messy bun, being far too tired to fix it.

John Watson was lying on his flat's floor, staring at the yellow smiley face Sherlock had made, a mocking and constant reminder that his best friend was gone forever, something that John needed no help remembering. Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door for the hundredth time that week. She was trying to get John to come out with her, never failing in believing that _this_ time she asked, he would say yes. He didn't bother to get up, he never did, and he just let her work her way through it. He hadn't moved, besides to occasionally shower, and it was worrying Mrs. Hudson practically beyond reason.

After a long, hot shower, and getting into the baggiest clothes she owned, Molly shuffled her way to her couch, tucking herself into herself. She pulled toby onto her lap, burying her head into his lap. She had mistakenly turned on the TV, and the news had been littered with the scandal that was Sherlock Holmes. Molly didn't bother trying to silence her sobs, didn't bother to leave her soft, comfortable, stable green couch. She fell asleep hunched into herself, and slept another dreamless night.

John turned on the tele without thinking. He just had a sudden desire to watch _something. _It was a bad decision. It was on the news, and was having a full hour long special on the defamed and feudalized genius. John hated every moment of it, but could not bring his eyes away, instead watching the horror show blurrily through a thick layer of tears. He cried all through the night, quite tear that one has because they simply cannot stop. He couldn't remember the last time that he had slept.

Molly woke to the pale early morning light, blinking to fix her tired, cried out eyes. She pushed herself out of bed, she had to get ready. Sherlock's funeral was in a few hours, and she wanted to look better than she ever had before, in some irrational attempt to please Sherlock, a man she knew was no more than a cold corpse. But she wanted to do it out of respect, a final salute.

John jerked to attention at the sound of Mrs. Hudson's wraps on the door. She was calling him, telling him to get ready. The, the funer- the ceremony was today. John had completely forgotten all about the aftermath. He couldn't deal with it, and Mycroft had volunteered to take care of all the arrangements when it was made clear that John was in no place for such a task. Mycroft told John that it would be in a few weeks, and John must have lost track of time. But, wow, really, it had been weeks? He could have sworn it had only been a few days, at most.

It was the three week anniversary of Sherlock's suicide. The word tasted bitter and sharp in her mouth, but Molly used it, even though it caused a pain in her heart, because it was clean and cut and almost scientifically medicinal, all things that were in her "comfort zone." Saying he died was to forgiving, and saying it was a fall or accident sounded like it was unintentional, two things Molly would never allow herself to believe. Sherlock choose to take his life, chose to leave Mrs. Hudson, Greg, and John. But he also left her. And Molly, although she knew how pointless, still had hoped that one day, maybe Sherlock would just look at her, for once, if she tried hard enough, he would notice, and then she would forget all those times he ignored her, and she would have her prince. But she could never have that now, because of a selfish man's selfish act.

John had checked his phone on the way to the service (via trans, he couldn't bring himself to call a cab, bringing up to many painful memories of him and Sherlock) for the first time since, well, since Sherlock died. It was littered with over two thousand messages (a collection of over a hundred phone calls a day, solidly for three weeks continuously) that ranged from everyone from Greg Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, to even surprisingly Mycroft and his sister, Harry. It should have been a touching gesture, but instead only raised irritation in him. How dare they think they could ever, ever, overstep like that. If he needed to grieve for a while, then damn well, _let him be at peace. _It was bad enough with all these bloody reporters spitting spinning stories out of their arse! Damn them all! Needless to say, he was fuming when reached the church.

Molly felt horrible thinking ill of Sherlock, the man she thought she loved, the poor man was dead and he couldn't defend himself. But she couldn't not think like that. She had just seen Mrs. Hudson start to sob, she looked like a mother putting her child to rest. Greg, bless his misguidedly masculine heart, couldn't even keep it together. He had tried to hide it, put Molly saw him wipe his eye more than once throughout the service. John, the poor man, seemed like he could barely keep it together and Molly oddly felt the need to go up and wrap her arms around him. He looked thinner and paler, his suit was wrinkled and his hair long and shaggy, very much unlike the pristine army man Molly took him for. She felt that friend would be a good thing for him at the moment and she made a mental note to check in on him on her next day off. It's what Sherlock made her promise, wasn't it?

Everyone who came to Sherlock's funeral came to the cemetery. Not that impressive when you consider only seven people out of thousands of Sherlock's "adoring" fans came. Mrs. H, Mycroft, Lestrade, Katie and Ben, Greg's teenagers (both far too awkward and gangly looking to be called children), himself, and Molly Hooper. She looked unbelievably nice, and was wearing a new black dress that made her look both elegant and sexy, topped with a large, floppy black hat that reeked of faux confidence and elegance. He couldn't take his eyes off her all day, which he felt inappropriate, considering their surroundings. But they had all left, and he needed to say some things too private to have been said in a speech.

"Um. Hm." He began. "You... you told me once that you weren't a hero…"

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_Adlie here! Thanks for reading and please review and follow! More chapters to be up soon._


	2. Goodbyes

Sherlock Holmes watched from afar as he saw his best friend put him down to rest, both literally and metaphorically. He heard every word John had told him, felt every intake of breath like a stab in his chest. John wasn't the only one losing someone that day. Experiencing that moment was a rare occurrence that proved Sherlock wrong. He did have a heart.

He had had to do it. John had had to believe for it to work. Because if John hadn't believed, Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson wouldn't, and then it would all have been pointless, and he would have had to bury his three closest friends. Although his heart was unarguable cold and hard, it was still breakable.

The youngest Holmes had buried too many bodies in his life, and he was determined to keep the count from raising. It seemed only fair that he was in the casket this time.

Sherlock waited until John had long since left. Then he rose, turning his coat collar up in the way that John hated. He turned and left, black curly hair blowing in the breeze, grey eyes staring out, unblinking in the wind.

He had work to do.

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_Adlie here! Sorry about the short chapter, but I felt that this needed it's own space, for structure. Thanks! Please review and follow! _


	3. Awkward Incounters

Molly had been trying to contact John for over a month now. It was getting ridiculous at just which level John evaded having to get in touch. Well, Molly humphed to herself, seems like she might just have to go talk to him herself. So she called her only person who could help. She called Mrs. Hudson.

John Woke that morning to intruder in his flat. Groggily, he jumped out of bed, and run down the stairs, gun in hand. He was anxious, this was a break in. A break in! It was something Sherlock would love-would have loved, John corrected himself. Would have.

John slowly, quietly made his way into his kitchen, still uncleaned and full of all of Sherlock's equipment John did not have the heart to put away. He cocked his gun and asked in a much sturdier voice then he was feeling for the culprit to turn around. What he saw surprised him.

Molly Hooper, all five feet and three inches of her, was covered from head to toe in flour.

"Oh my goodness, John, are you going to shoot me?" She asked with an incredibly surprised expression, as if reasoning that breaking and entering was not a crime, and that John did not have a gun and did not learn over his years with Sherlock that people breaking in where could not be the most dangerous people Europe, if not the world.

John looked back at her, wearing an equally surprised face and said in an elegant way, "Burglars don't cook, Molly."

She looked back at him as if he was the slowest boy in the class. "Yes, John, they certainly don't."

"Oh," He said lowing his gun, feeling somehow as if he was the intruder in this situation, oddly enough. "So… Um… Molly, just what are you doing in my kitchen?"

Molly blushed deeply. This was an extremely awkward conversation, even by Molly's standards. "Um… I called Mrs. Hudson, to ask on you, because you weren't returning my calls whichisreallyrudebythewayandwegot-"She stammered, speaking slowly at first and then rapidly speeding up, until John, even accustomed to Sherlock's rapid fire thinking, could not keep up.

"Um, can you speak a little slower, please?" He asked.

"Oh sorry, yeah, anyways, um… I called Mrs. Hudson because we've all been really worried about you, Greg and Mrs. Hudson and I, and I wanted to make sure you were okay, so I called you a lot but you didn't answer, so then I called Mrs. Hudson and she invited me over for tea to chat, and so I came, and, um… Then we talked and we decided that you need to go out more, been too cooped up in side, so who better to take you out then us? I mean, we've never been close, but I do consider you a friend, John, so anyhow we came up here to talk to you, but Mrs. Hudson had to get something from her closet before we left, and I got bored so I started to bake, I love cupcakes you know, well maybe you didn't, and anyway you woke up and here we are, um… yes. Sorry." She finished, completely flustered. _Leave it to me,_ she thought, _to make a complete ditz of myself. _

John blinked, still groggy and trying to make sense of this confusing situation which Molly didn't really help explain in a seneschal manner. "So, you guys decided to take me out, _in the middle of the night?" _He gestured to the darkness outside his window. Molly looked even more confused at this then John would have thought.

"It's seven at night, John. Hardly the middle of it."

_Oh, _he thought. _Maybe I should go out for a bit. _


	4. Two of a Kind

Sherlock sat and watched the fire, irritation playing on his features. He impulsively ripped his face with both hands, resting them in a way that would make any who didn't him think he was praying.

"How long?" He demanded, voice booming in the empty library.

"I don't know," Mycroft answered. "It may be delayed by a few months. These things need time to blow over. Two months isn't enough time for all the dust to settle." The oldest Holmes boy explained to his younger and impatient brother.

"But I want to get back, NOW." He whined, "I'm bored. There's nothing to do."

"Well," Mycroft said. "You might find interest in some intelligence I came across." Sherlock's grey eyes shot up to meet Mycroft's blue ones, waiting for his brother to tell him. Before he did, he leisurely made his way opposite Sherlock, siting and getting comfortable, enjoying the irritation he was causing his sibling.

"What?" Sherlock yelled. Myrcroft smiled. He had been waiting for Sherlock to beg, it caused Mycroft the satisfaction that only an older child could feel at tormenting their younger sibling. But his small smile soon fell when he though back to what he was going to tell his brother.

Mycroft announced in a tired way; "James Moriarty is not dead."


	5. Sudden Changes

Molly and John put the blanket down in the park, enjoying the warmth of the summer sun. They had planned a picnic with Mrs. Hudson that afternoon, and where setting up when she had called, claiming hip pain as a see-through excuse to play match maker. She had stopped going on the outings with them after just two weeks and now was spending the third playing cupid.

Both Molly and John laughed it off, but the kindly old women's melding was starting to become slightly irritating to John, mostly because it embossed and upset Molly, a person he adopted as a friend. John did not take to people upsetting his friends, especially Molly Hooper, a women who refused to kill the spider in the bathroom the previous Tuesday because she was convinced it was just lost and afraid. He felt like she needed protecting, not because she was weak, but because she had a fragile innocence about her that seemed vaguely childlike.

It was strange to John to accept someone again, after Sherlock. That was his standard unit of time now, after Sherlock.

"Are you alright, John?" Molly questioned with the slight high-pitched undertone that allowed John to glimpse at her level of concern.

"Um…" John muttered, shocked by the quiver in his voice. He whipped his face, and was again surprised by the moisture he find there. "I… I… I don't know?"

Before the two of them realized, Molly had wrapped her arms around him. "Shh, shh," She cooed, "It'll be alright."

John quietly sobbed in her arms unable to stop himself. "I'm… I'm so sorry Molly. I'm ruining your evening."

"No, it's okay, it's okay." Molly suddenly laughed and John heard the deep rumble through her chest. "It's not like I really had much of an evening planned."

They stayed like that until John was able to control himself. Molly called a taxi, and insisted on taking him to her flat, where he sunk on the couch, exhausted.

"Wait here, I'll go make you some tea." Molly insisted, feeling slightly awkward to have such an obviously distressed man in her apartment and needed an escape. When she came back with some chamomile tea, John had tears down his cheeks again. Molly sat on her coffee table opposite him, and patted his knee. "John, dear, tell me what's wrong, please." She demanded in a polite way only Molly Hooper could do.

John glanced up at her ceiling, absentmindedly petting her beloved cat, Toby. "It's just…" He sighed. "I just keep thinking about…" He tried to continue, finding it suddenly hard to speak. "It's that bloody flat. I can't live there, with all of his things, all of _him_ there, waiting for him to come back. And I can't put it away either, believe me, Molly, I've tried. I just can't. It's stupid and I can't and it's always there and I don't know how I kept it up for this long but I can't go back and thinking about going back to that damn awful, bloody, lonely place makes me feel _sick._" His voice was steady although his face dripped with shedding tears. "I just…" He finished slowly, finally meeting her eyes, begging for understanding and forgiveness for a crime that wasn't one. "Can't."

Molly's heart broke seeing him look so hurt and lost, and before she even realized this was a thought, she had already spoken. "John, you're more than welcome to live here, with me." Her eyes went wide and her hands flew to her mouth in shock and surprise at her own suggestion. She had never lived with a man, despite the many she had dated.

John was just was just as stunned, but agreed without thinking. He, too, was surprised by the rashness of this event.

Two weeks later John Watson was fully moved in with Molly Hooper.


	6. Paris

_Adlie here! Thank you to everyone who has been reading, it means so much for me. But I just wanted to give a special thanks to iamthedaisyqueen for being such a loyal reviewer! And also thanks to everyone who started following, it means so much to me. :)_

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A lone young man with white blond hair and a fake tan slowly opened the door to a small, forgotten flat in the wrong side of Paris. The apartment had one room that was dusty, and the warn velvet couches had white covers over them, giving the area a slightly haunted look.

But nobody had lived there for a while.

"Damn!" Sherlock Holmes exclaimed in frustration. Moriarty escaped him again.

Sherlock did a quick scope of the room, and spotted an area of the floor that looked like the wooden bored was removable.

When he investigated, he found a note.

The only thing it said was, "See you in a few."

It had been nearly a month sense Sherlock received the news, making it close to the three month anniversary of his 'death' and he had become more than slightly irate over the fact that he still could not go to back to his home in London.

Sherlock Holmes did not like waiting.

He did not like having a stubble.

Or being blond.

Or supporting a fake tan.

He did not like having to run.

_Moriarty will pay,_ Sherlock vowed, balling the note and throwing onto the ground in disgust.

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___Hey lovely readers! Adlie here again, sorry! But I have an announcement so. :/ I have a lot of family from out of town in these next couple weeks, so I won't be posting as often as I like. :( But I will try to keep up with it and I have the whole story planed out so it's just a matter of writing it so hopefully it won't be too long. Thanks for reading! _


	7. Poker

_Hey, Adlie here! Sorry I haven't posted in forever, it's just that I had my aunt living with us for a while, and I have to visit family for pretty much everyday this weeks, and school started up again. Sorry! Hopefully this is big enough to please you guys!_

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Molly Hooper sat crossed legged on the living room floor, wearing last night's PJ's in the middle-of-the-afternoon, greasy hair in ponytail, shuffling the deck of playing cards.

Both her and John had the day off, so the two of them were enjoying each other company. Running out of things to watch on Netflix, John had suggested a nice old game of poker. Molly had timidly agreed, blushing when she had to ask how to play the game. John had laughed then, a friendly teasing one that warmed Molly's heart. But in a strictly platonic way, of course.

After the started playing, Molly lost the first two hands. John felt bad, they were betting chores, and she had to make her dinner and John's breakfast for two nights straight.

"Lollypop," He had given her this nickname after a week of being moved in when her sweet tooth had become apparent. "We can play a different game, if you want?" He offered her.

This time, Molly was the one who laughed, a small, quite bell sound that John thought was one of the most beautiful sounds he ever heard. In a friendly way, of course.

"No, no, no!" She insisted, waving her hand away, "I'm fine, I'm fine!" She stressed. Laughing, she added, "I'm so fine, in fact, that maybe we play double or nothing? On chores? Just for fun." She added in a dazzlingly smile that made John smile back.

"Oh, okay, fine." He laughed, knowing that he would not have to do a lot for the next month, at least. "I'll go easy on you," He sobered, "I swear."

She just smiled and waved her hand again.

The next hand she won.

They both cheered, high fiving each other, laughing, being silly. Molly loved it, and John wouldn't admit for a while, but he loved it even more.

The next hand, Molly won.

And the next hand.

And the next.

And the one after that one, too.

And again.

And another one.

"Beginer's luck?" Molly shrugged when John looked at a lost for words.

And so the played a few more, and Molly won them all.

"Damn!" John exclaimed before after Molly won a another round. He was in charge of everything for the next two months, and he was a little surprised by the timid scientist's skills. She just shrugged.

Just before Molly could win another hand, two women burst through her door. One was very tell, about 5'8, long wavy brown hair, very _voluptuous _in a polite sense, and wore a size 2 red dress that hugged everything god had given her. The other, a short red head with friendly grey eyes and smile that could put any one at ease, gave a little wave to John, pulling her coat off and revealing a cream, flowery dress that screamed innocent sweetness.

Red laughed when she saw them playing poker. "Really, Molls? Don't run the poor man dry!" She spoke with a voice that sounded silky, and rougher than one would expect.

Molly blushed. "It's not for money," She rationalized, "It's just for chores." She looked at John with a serious expression. "I wouldn't play you for money or anything."

"Ummm….?" John looked around, confused. He had lived there two months next week, and had never seen these people before in his life. Molly seemed to know them, and did they have keys? John always looks the doors, no matter what, so how? "Uh, er, what?"

Cream spoke up with a voice the sounded like music, laughing as she did so. "Dear, you're playing poker with the best hustler form up North."

Molly blushed even deeper. "No, you're playing with his daughter. Besides," She stated, "It's just for chores."

Cream rolled her grey eyes. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, Molly."

Red sighed with her signature thick-lipped pout that had employed her for years and flung herself on the couch. "Regardless," She whined, "I want to go out, have fun, something both of you have seemed to have forgotten about."

Cream added to her friend's statement. "Yeah, Molls, come on. We haven't gone out in ages, and if I can got out after Teddy, you can go out now." She said with a nod of her head, her red bob bouncing.

"I don't know…" Molly tried to get out of it, glancing at John. John mistook her cry for help as thinking he needed watching.

"No, no! Lollypop, go with them, I'll be fine." John insisted.

"Are you sure, because it would be no bother to stay. No bother at all, in fact, I think I'll do that. Sorry!" She got up, trying to usher her friends out the door.

Red, used to Molly's tricks, side-stepped her. "Oh, no he can come with us! It's fine!" She turned to John. "Right, dear?" She dared him.

He gulped. "Right."

Soon, after Molly had gotten dressed and put on her black dress from Christmas, and they had roped Greg to come too, introductions where made by Molly.

"John," she motioned to him, "Meet Mikayla. We call her Mikky." She said, motioning to the one in the red. "Mikky, John." The she pointed to the red-headed one, "John, this is Maddie. Maddie, John. Maddie, Greg, Greg, Maddie, Greg, Mikky, Mikky, Greg." She introduced, felling awkward.

Mikky wrapped herself around Greg's arm. "I've always loved a man in uniform, you know." She flirted. Greg smiled.

"Well," He answered. "I've always loved a pretty girl."

And so they all set out for a drink.

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_Hey, Aldie here again! Thanks for reading!_


	8. Somewhere

_Hey, Adlie here! So sorry about being bad about posting, I'll try harder OTP be better about it! I've just been really busy! but thanks to all of you who stick with it! I love you guys. :) Also, I wrote this on my iPhone while I was watching a base-ball shame so sorry if things are spelled weird, I'll edit more later!_

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The great Sherlock Holmes was casually walked into the crowded pub. He was in Ireland that day, chasing after a dead man. And he had no clue as to where he was.

So far, this little game of cat and mice had taken him across nine countries, there seas, and two continents.

Without so much of a glance at the man who had soiled the Holmes reputation, (not that Sherlock cared), forced him into hiding, (another thing sherlock did not care about), and threatened his friends (something the "robot" did care about.)

Sherlock was getting irritated with it. It had been six months after his "death", five after learning his enemy was still alive. And he had not so much as a hint as to what Jim WS going to do, much less when, or where. Every time he thought he was close-BAM! The trail ran cold.

So needless to say, Sherlock was not amused.

He thought this as he searched yet another abandoned room in some forgotten little town on the edge of nowhere.

He looked everywhere and nothing was out of place, nothing was dirty, the entire room swept clean. It was aggravating.

Sherlock cried out in annoyance, stomping his foot on the floor in disgust.

He would find him. And when he did, well, Moriarty would wish he had killed himself when he had the chance.

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_Adlie here! Just wanted to say thanks for reading and next chapter will up in the week._


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